


A Debt Unpaid

by saintsavage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, I'll be tagging this as I go to try and prevent spoilers, Sandor Lives, Saved By Sandor, The Petyr/Sansa bit is MINOR, but they aren't endgame at all, less "chapters" and more random slices of life, obviously, sooooo, such as Sansa/Sandor, will be exploring other relationships in Sansa's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8648545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsavage/pseuds/saintsavage
Summary: So I decided to re-write an older story of mine, A Debt Unpaid. I really loved it but had unfortunately lost a lot (all but two) of the chapters in a computer crash and couldn't find it in myself to write them again. The idea kept needling me, however, and I finally got around to this. As the tags suggest this is a Sansa/Willas endgame fic. I will be exploring Sansa/Sandor, Sansa/Tyrion, even Sansa/Petyr a teensy bit but they are not endgame so please keep that in mind. In the process I put Sansa through a bit of hell though less hell then GRRM put her through. I'm mostly sorry about that. But I give her flowers and puppies and peace (and ptsd) at the end?No that probably doesn't help. I'M SORRY SANSA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to re-write an older story of mine, A Debt Unpaid. I really loved it but had unfortunately lost a lot (all but two) of the chapters in a computer crash and couldn't find it in myself to write them again. The idea kept needling me, however, and I finally got around to this. As the tags suggest this is a Sansa/Willas endgame fic. I will be exploring Sansa/Sandor, Sansa/Tyrion, even Sansa/Petyr a teensy bit but they are not endgame so please keep that in mind. In the process I put Sansa through a bit of hell though less hell then GRRM put her through. I'm mostly sorry about that. But I give her flowers and puppies and peace (and ptsd) at the end?
> 
> No that probably doesn't help. I'M SORRY SANSA.

"I couldn't let him touch you. Have you. You're mine." Littlefinger pressed his hands more insistently around her waist, his lips at her throat. Sweetrobin's dead eyes seemed to follow the movement. She wondered if Harry the Heir was watching too, from his place at the other side of the bed. How had it come to this?  
  
"Father-" She tried to pull away, gently at first but more and more frantically.  
  
"I am _not_ your father, Sansa Stark." His eyes are so black, so dark and possessive. That made her freeze, giving him time to crush his mouth against hers. He tasted like bitter wine. She could feel his tongue against the seam of her lips, fighting to get in.  
  
It had started out so differently. Father - _Littlefinger, he's not my father_ \- had told her the plan, made her repeat it over and over again so she got it right. Sansa couldn't afford to be a stupid girl when this was so important for them. She was to coax Harry in to Sweetrobin's room after dark and convince him to smother the helpless boy in his bed. _What kind of life do you think he has Harry? Don't you want for us to be Lord and Lady of the Vale?_  
  
That was the plan. She had to follow the plan, like Littlefinger said.  
  
But as soon as she did things went all wrong. Littlefinger hadn't drugged her cousin and Sweetrobin kicked and kicked, muffled screams hurting her ears until she covered them, and even then she knew. It was _awful_. Harry smiled at her from across the bed, and then the kicking stopped, the room suddenly still. The only sound was Harry's panting. He stepped away, dusted his hands off, and smiled at her again, like a little boy hoping for praise.  
  
Sansa knew she should smile back, should do something. They hadn't talked about it, about after, but it seemed like something she ought to do now that Harry had done his part. But she couldn't. Couldn't even pretend to. It felt like she'd sold her soul.  
  
Overwhelmed as she was she didn't even question when Littlefinger stepped out from behind a tapestry. But that was wrong, he shouldn't be there it was wrong and he had a knife... Harry didn't see, and... and... Littlefinger stabbed Harry. Sansa backed against the rough stone wall, watching in transfixed horror as her father - _Littlefinger!_ \- stabbed Harry again, and again. Murdering the very man he'd chosen to be her husband.  
  
Blood bubbled up from Harry's lips, he made a wretched gurgling sound, his body jerked as Littlefinger drove the knife in again - _and again and again!_ \- before stepping away. His face was flecked in blood, his tunic drenched. He looked like a madman.  
  
And now this. A dead boy's eyes watching as Littlefinger forced her mouth open.  
  
Tears were running down her cheeks, she kept asking him to stop, to please stop. Sansa even called upon his sense of reason. The guards will be checking on him soon, we can't be here. But he wouldn't stop. _Oh god, oh god._ The stone was cutting through her back, painful against her spine.  
  
Remembering her time in King's Landing, how little fighting back ever seemed to get her... Sansa almost wanted to give up, to go limp, but she didn't stop fighting. Wouldn't. Joffrey hadn't had her and Littlefinger would have to kill her first. She was a wolf. A Stark.  
  
That brought her courage and Sansa tried shoving him away again despite the bruising grip on her arms. She kicked at his legs, even tried to bite him before he smashed her head against the wall, leaving her dazed as he swooped back in, pulling up her skirts- _oh Mother, it's happening he's going to- please, please not this, not here-_  
  
She swore she saw a man in black. The Stranger, come for her soul?  
  
Only the Stranger grabbed Littlefinger, picked him up and off of her like he was nothing at all, dead air, before he threw him across the room. Littlefinger hit the ground but The Stranger was already focusing on her, pushing back his cowl. Sandor. He was dead but Sandor had come to save her anyway, again. She should have known.  
  
Dimly Sansa was aware that she was all but sobbing and tried to be quiet, taking great gasps of air. Sandor approached her in that no nonsense way of his, broad hands encircling her face. "It's okay little bird, you're okay." It was only for a moment before he turned back to Littlefinger, but for that moment she'd felt safe. Safer than she'd felt since... she could hardly remember the last time.  
  
Sandor had pulled his sword from his scabbard, moving towards Littlefinger - who was scrambling backwards, for once speechless - with deadly purpose. But Sansa knew he'd think of something quickly enough to save his own skin. It's what he did.  
  
"Keep him quiet or he'll blame you! Us!" Sandor obliged her, grabbing the other man and holding him tightly by the throat - not enough to choke him, but enough to keep him silent. He was watching her curiously, sword in one hand, Littlefinger in the other, like she was an oddity he couldn't quite puzzle out, but there wasn't time to explain. There were two dead bodies on the ground and if they weren't careful Littlefinger would see them hanged for it.  
  
"Sansa, we need to leave." Sandor cuffed Petyr in the head, rendering him unconscious before dropping the man in a heap on the floor. He put his sword away and offered her his rough hand, stepping over Petyr to do so. "Come on little bird, it's time to fly."  
  
"No!" She shook her head, wringing her hands as her mind raced desperately for an answer. "No we can't leave him alive. He's too dangerous." _If I run from him he'll find me, make me pay. He'll never let me go. I can't let that happen._  
  
Sandor said nothing while Sansa's mind flew.  
  
Finally her eyes met his, decision made. "I know what to do." They had to act, now, before any more time had passed. Before Littlefinger woke up and she had to test her silver tongue against his. "I want you to meet me in the garden, near the kitchen. Don't come back for me, I'll come to you."  
  
"Sansa-"  
  
"Go!" Her voice was sharp, an echo of her mother's whenever the Stark children were in trouble. It worked.  
  
With extreme reluctance, Sandor went, exiting through the side corridor. Sansa counted to thirty in her head as she looked for something she could claim had knocked Littlefinger out. Settling on a heavy silver platter, sure Sandor was safely out of range, Sansa screamed for the guards.  
  
Two men burst in to the room, taking in the grim scene before them but Sansa was already spilling out her tale. "Father, Father killed Harry! And Sweetrobin isn't breathing. I came to wish him goodnight and, and... _I hit him_. I hit him! But he was hurting Harry!" Her choked sob was easy to fake. Perhaps it was real. The tears running down her cheeks certainly were.  
  
One of the guards kindly took the plate away and led her to a chair, blocking the view of the bodies before her. More guards came, one checking Sweetrobin's pulse before shaking his head. The boy was gone.  
  
It wasn't long before Littlefinger woke up, loudly exclaiming that Sandor Clegane was alive and well and had murdered Harry and Sweetrobin. No one listened. Sansa noticed he didn't out her as the infamous Stark girl but it didn't matter. She saw him now, she'd never stop seeing.  
  
By some miracle of the gods Harry was still alive, but just barely. They called for the maester and carried him out.  
  
Sansa sat quietly in her chair, rocking in place and trying not to think. It took awhile before anyone thought of Littlefinger's bastard, awkwardly escorting her to her room. No one thought to guard the door.  
  
Gathering up what she could in a tight bundle Sansa quickly made her way to Sandor, her escape ( _running, I'm always running_ ) less dramatic than the one from King's Landing. _Only I'm leaving behind more bodies than before - and a terrible enemy should Littlefinger survive this._  
  
Like she'd commanded Sandor was waiting in the garden, solid and steady and real. He shoved her belongings in to his saddlebag before helping her mount the skittish bay stallion he'd brought. It felt strange in that moment but Sansa trusted him. So many had failed her, but Sandor had always tried to protect her.  
  
"We have to leave. Now." Her voice is a hoarse whisper.  
  
Sandor grunts and settles in behind her, kicking at the horse to move. She could feel the tension in his back and arms, the stiff way he held the reins. Sansa waited in dread for him to say whatever plagued him. Finally the words come, clumsy as they were. "Are you alright?"  
  
"Yes, I'm fine, I'm fine." She wasn't.  
  
"Where are we going little bird?"  
  
"Home, I want to go home." For once in the longest while Sansa allowed herself to break, just a little. She fell against Sandor, turning sideways in the saddle and wrapping her arms around his middle, pretending he was everything she'd lost. Her father, her mother, Robb and Arya, Bran and Rickon, Lady... she'd lost so much. "I just want to go home."  
  
"Then I'll take you home."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each chapter is more of a vignette then an immediate follow-up to the previous one. Because they're so short I might try and update twice a week.

Terror had held her in the palm of it's hand for the first few weeks. Every small noise had her immediately on edge, over-tired eyes searching out the cause. When a branch snapped she jumped, when a rabbit tore across their path she nearly screamed. She was twice wanted now and thus twice as frightened. The future was a hundred-faced man, ominous and unknowing.  
  
At the first river they came across she'd rinsed the dye from her hair but there was no question: if anyone saw her now she'd still be Alayne Stone.  
  
Or Sansa Stark.  
  
Neither was safe and the thought plagued her.  
  
She was so anxious she started losing weight, constantly wringing her hands to the point where the reins she held were discolored. Her hair was falling out. Each morning she'd wake with darker circles under her eyes, watching dully as Sandor cleared away all signs of their makeshift camp. It wouldn't be long until she looked like a gaunt wraith of herself. Maybe it would be better that way.  
  
And then there was Sandor, who was one giant worry in and of himself. Sandor who watched her like she was something precious and holy. Sandor who fed her and cared for her and never asked for a thing, not once. She'd pressed for an answer, trying to figure it out, and all he'd said was that he wanted to know she was well. Later he said he'd keep her safe, that he'd take her home, but why? What did he want? What did she have to give him to be safe? It was too much for her over-stressed mind.  
  
It was a peasant's wife who gave her the idea - the solution. They'd stopped and bartered for food - Sandor had some coin, not much, but enough for their purposes - and the woman had given them what she could all under the watchful eye of her husband. It wasn't much. Bread, some soft white cheese, but her temporary guardian dutifully counted out what they'd asked for it. She knew he was hoping she'd be tempted by something not scavenged from the forest but her mind was on other things.  
  
Sansa couldn't _believe_ the woman felt secure having a man like Sandor under her roof, clearly so dangerous, large and burnt and menacing, yet she did and Sansa couldn't reason out the why of it.  
  
The woman even went so far as to ask to speak to Sansa for a moment and Sandor went to stand by their horses placidly enough, though he was watching warily, hand on his sword. For her part Sansa flinched, fearing that any moment the couple would turn out to be spies and would drag her back to the Vale or King's Landing. She couldn't decide which would be a worse fate.  
  
"Are you alright? That man there, he didn't steal you away or nothing did he?" She was almost protective, brown face wrinkled in concern, as though she could do anything about it if it were true. Sansa blinked, surprised at the question and the feeling behind it.  
  
Was it having a husband that made her feel safe? Bold, even? She'd had certainly never felt safe with Tyrion. Maybe safer than she'd have been if Joffrey had wed her, but not by much. Yet... Sandor wasn't Tyrion. He was stronger, easily bigger than most men, and if the rumors were true he'd even fought off death himself.  
  
Maybe it was the husband himself that made the difference?  
  
Sansa spit out the next words without thinking. "Oh you misunderstand, that man is my husband. We... we eloped and my family might be looking for us." The woman fussed some more but seemed placated when Sansa went back to Sandor and smiled at him, a real smile because she finally had it, a way to be safe.  
  
A voice in her head called her clever girl and she faltered a bit, shoving it down viciously and locking it up tight because that was Petyr's voice. _You're not here, Littlefinger. Stay away._  
  
He seemed baffled, helping her on to her horse as though he was afraid she would suddenly vanish. Sansa thought about it again. Maybe if she had a husband like Sandor nobody would hurt her, nobody could take her away again. Sandor had protected her before, during the riot, even went against Joffrey. Would it be so bad?  
  
And like Littlefinger said, Tyrion couldn't be alive. That made her a widow. Widows could remarry. Maybe she wouldn't be afraid then. What she wouldn't give to be _safe_ , to be _home_.


	3. Chapter 3

In the end it hadn't taken much convincing, or any at all. Three days after their encounter with the couple they were headed down some half-forgotten road mostly buried in snarls of forest. It had been a quiet morning, started much like the rest of their mornings before they mounted and headed North, always North.  
  
They hadn't been riding for more than an hour when Sansa had simply turned to him and said: "Sandor, I'll only be safe if you marry me."  
  
He'd sputtered and coughed, coming to a complete halt in the road so that he could stare at her in bewilderment, like she'd become possessed by some demon, but he hadn't disagreed. Perhaps it was wrong, but Sansa knew he coveted her. Knew and used it, just as she'd been taught. Was it really so wrong, to offer herself in trade?  
  
Not that Sandor seemed to understand, even as she tried to explain herself; tried being the key word. It had come out as a strange ramble about husbands and widows before she'd managed to quiet herself, drawing up in a dignified manner and settling for the bare facts. There was no way to make her offer a pretty one, not without lies she would not tell. "I don't want to hurt anymore, or be scared, and you won't let that happen. You won't let anybody take me away."  
  
His face then... it made her flush with guilt, even if she hadn't told him anything less than the sterling truth. He seemed so impossibly _happy_ , she couldn't bear to tell him it had nothing to do with loving him, though looking back on her words that was probably the impression he had. It was too cruel a thing to say, so she said nothing at all. _Letting him believe isn't a lie, it's just an omission, that's all. And I may love him someday. I could try._  
  
Once it was settled they found a septon (somehow, the memory is a blurred one) and the ceremony was over rather quickly. No cloaks, no elaborate promises. Just words spoken before a balding man who had been bribed for the privilege. Sansa looked in Sandor's earnest, adoring eyes and all she could think was _save me, you have to save me_.  
  
The part after... it wasn't horrible. It hurt a little, at first, but Sandor treated her like glass. It wasn't like Septa Mordane said at all, nor was it like that strange, surreal night with Tyrion. But afterward Sandor's big body curled around her completely, face buried in her hair, and she felt surrounded by him.  
  
Surely she was safe now, wasn't she?  
  
The next few weeks passed by slowly, their zig-zagging path to Winterfell uncomfortable and frustrating but necessary on the off-chance someone came across them on the road.  
  
Sandor took his protection of her seriously, more so than he had before. He was more gentle with her now, if that was possible, helping her from her horse and doing everything he could to prepare their makeshift camps while she watched, feeling useless, like lace on a leather jerkin. He didn't seem to mind it. He even smiled now and then. It felt... nice.  
  
He would offer her things, the best part of a rabbit he'd snared or sweet berries he'd found in the woods, and Sansa would accept with a graceful smile. After their marriage she'd started to eat more, though it was a tentative thing. She was still afraid, their marriage and her belief in it untested.  
  
They started to talk, giving her time to know the man behind the burns and fearsome reputation. He told her about his sister, about the dogs he'd grown up with. She told him about lemon cakes and Jeyne and other things that were neutral. Never about her family. She just couldn't, the words lodging in her throat, but Sandor seemed to understand that. He was a surprisingly thoughtful man, respectful of her distance. Sansa appreciated that deeply.  
  
There was a tense moment when she was recognized outside a tavern - as herself, as Sansa Stark - but she didn't even have to scream. She took two steps back and then there was Sandor, hand on her shoulder. He stepped in front of her and the fight was over before it begun. It was late and there'd been no witnesses but they'd left anyway and all she could think was _I'm safe I'm safe I'm safe_. For the very first time in their marriage she'd smiled for real, bright and happy.  
  
They rode to Winterfell.


	4. Chapter 4

Winterfull was a burned out nothing, a shell of its former self. Sansa's heart ached to look at it, eyes burning with tears that couldn't fall. She wanted to go closer, to see what the world had done to her beloved home - to put her hands on the broken stone and to _feel_ it, the way she felt the destruction of her family - but ruin or not, it was occupied.  
  
Sandor was the one who spotted them first, immediately dragging them both behind a bluff. It was hard to tell whose men they were, black dots traipsing back and forth in between a curtain of falling snow, and unless they could be sure... it wasn't safe.  
  
Briefly they talked about getting closer but Sandor didn't want to leave her long enough to see; she didn't want him to leave her either. It was a stalemate with no winning option. Instead they huddled up close and watched the blackened shapes go about their day, not knowing that they were being watched by two desperate souls.  
  
In that moment Sansa wished she _was_ magic, just like they'd whispered about her after Joffrey's death. She'd fly over the castle and spit fire and force them out of the only home she had left. But she wasn't, and wishing only made things hurt worse. Might as well wish for the dead to come back to life.  
  
Sandor came back. True, but he'd never died, not really.  
  
He finally told her how he'd made it out of his own personal hell alive, told her how he'd seen Arya - and such joy she'd felt, that Arya might be alive still! - and she'd left him for dead but instead he'd been discovered and healed. Then he'd found himself digging graves as some strange sort of penance then until rumors of the reward for Sansa had reached him. Sandor had seen for himself how Littlefinger had obsessed over Catelyn Stark, it wasn't that much of a guess to think he had her daughter squirreled away somewhere.  
  
And he'd been right.  
  
Sansa sighed, leaning against him for warmth, knowing that they'd have to leave soon. Winter had come and it was too cold to remain as exposed as they were without warmer clothes. She at least had a woolen high-necked dress they'd traded for but Sandor's things were all made for lands more warmer than these. It was a miracle he hadn't lost any of his fingers. They had to leave, they must.  
  
But they were so close! Winterfell was right there, and it was hers, by rights! By law! There was no one else but her. That had her choking back a sob and Sandor clumsily offering comfort but it was no use. He wasn't her mother, wasn't her father or Robb or even Arya.  
  
She just wanted to be home in her room eating lemon cakes with Jeyne Poole, cakes that they'd snuck up from the kitchens. She wanted to be walking Lady across the courtyards. She wanted to be a little girl again forever, not an orphan who had thrown up three days in a row and had nothing to her name but treason.  
  
At nightfall they discussed their options. They could try seeking shelter at the Wall. Jon was there, surely he could help them. They could also risk getting closer to Winterfell and discovering who held it. There were others they could run to, the Manderlys, the Mormonts... but Sansa was so afraid. What if they weren't safe? What if nowhere was safe?  
  
But Sandor assured her that he'd protect her, like before at the tavern, and she had to trust that. Mostly she did.  
  
Jon was at last dismissed. They couldn't be sure he would be able to welcome them at all - since he'd taken the black he had forsworn all others, and Sansa was an enemy of the crown. Even if by some miracle they'd be allowed to stay war was still everywhere, even at the Wall, there's no telling what might happen to them there.  
  
Of her father's bannerman they had finally dwindled the options down to two, the ones she felt could be trusted the most. "What's it to be little bird? The bears or the mermaids?" She chose the mermaids. If nothing else they could leave by boat, go across the sea, somewhere far away where nobody knew who Sansa Stark was. No, Sansa Stark Clegane now. She was a Clegane.  
  
Hopefully that would be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a babe quickening in her belly.  
  
She wasn't sure before, how could she be? Girls were sheltered from all but the basic knowledge, the idea being that when the time came they'd learn all that they needed to. But when she kept throwing up Sandor finally insisted on finding a maester. He was deathly afraid that she was dying; she certainly looked it.  
  
Sansa panicked, had a near breakdown before securing his promise not to take her to a maester. It was too risky. If even one person recognized her... _I won't be safe then. Sandor can't protect me from an army._  
  
Instead they compromised and found a midwife who confirmed that Sansa was with child. It had been an uncomfortable examination, one Sandor waited outside for even though Sansa desperately wanted him right there with her because she was so afraid. But it was over quickly and the woman rattled off basic instructions on what Sansa would need to do from now on. It was a lot more than expected, and most of it was impossible while they were on the run.  
  
It made getting to the Manderlys even more important.  
  
The woman finished her speech and helped Sansa dress. If she thought something about a fourteen year old girl being pregnant and bedraggled she kept such thoughts to herself and took their money without comment, not even to congratulate Sandor. She merely told him the news and was off, back to tending her own flock of children.  
  
His eyes had gotten big and round and he nearly dropped their pouch of money before his unsteady hands secured the purse at his side. Sansa felt very much the same. Now they were both afraid, two scared children running from shadows.  
  
Sandor seemed to think the baby would kill her. To herself she almost hoped it would.  
  
Word had reached them that Petyr had been executed for his crimes. Sansa waited for her stomach to sink, for the guilt to flood her, but she just felt... relief. He'd never, ever get his hands on her again. For that freedom she'd have paid any price, even one as dearly as that.  
  
Harry the Heir lived but they said he'd never walk again. There was a warrant out for the arrest of Littlefinger's bastard. _Twice the criminal. Would it never stop?_  
  
When they reached White Harbor she wanted to collapse in relief. If nothing else she'd find out if they'd remained true; either she'd be taken in and sheltered or held captive. Anything but screaming at the void, furtively crawling across the Seven Kingdoms. She was so tired of running. Of not knowing who could be trusted and who might stab her in the belly.  
  
Sandor checked them in at a small, respectable inn and after constant reassurance was able to leave her and seek an audience with Wyman Manderly himself. He was gone for hours, long enough for the suspicions to bubble up and threaten to overwhelm her. She nearly ran out in to the night with nothing on her but a shift, prepared to run and run and run until the cold took her.  
  
But Sandor did return, and when he was he was almost smiling. "We're safe little bird. What's more, they have your brother, the younger one." _Rickon? Rickon was alive, not dead by Theon Greyjoy's hands?_ Sansa choked back a sob and threw herself at Sandor, happy tears streaking her cheeks because she'd never dared hope... it wasn't Winterfell, wasn't everything, but for the first time she wouldn't be alone anymore, the last Stark. It was something to live for.  
  
Except... she remembered the baby almost guiltily. _That too. She could live for Sandor's baby too._  
  
Wyman hid her as he promised. They dyed her hair again - this time his daughter Wylla convinced her that she should choose some kind of vibrant color and she'd gone with blue. Sandor had smiled to see it, pleased that she'd lost her gaunt, haunted look, and told her it brought out the color of her eyes. She'd blushed sweetly before turning back to the giggling bunch of girls that were now her companions.  
  
It was almost like having Margaery and the cousins back, or Myranda - the latter of which had gotten her wish to marry Harry after all. Sansa wished her luck. The Manderly girls were bubbly and mischievous, a mix of north and south. They forced their company on her until she discovered she could still laugh, still enjoy the world. They even helped her find a way to love the babe in her belly, fussing and offering her the best of all things and jumping excitedly whenever they kicked.  
  
And Rickon, he was a wild thing, all curls and little boy stubbornness. She loved him dearly. It soothed the ache in her breast to see him scampering down hallways and jumping out at maidservants with delight. It was better still when he told her that the Reeds were with Bran, that Bran might live still. _Us Starks are harder to kill then those bastard Lannisters thought._  
  
Having Shaggydog helped too, reminded her of Lady. Around others he was difficult and unapproachable, often baring his teeth and growling, but he was a gentle, meek creature around Sansa, licking her hand and following her when she walked through the city.  
  
As her pregnancy progressed as the world grew darker and darker. The Dawn was coming and everyone knew it by now. All able-bodied men went to the Wall including Sandor. Their farewell had been a chaste one, Sandor fearful of doing anything to hurt their child. She felt guilty for being glad that he was gone. His adoration was an uncomfortable cloak to wear.  
  
And then, on the Eve of the first clash with the whitewalkers, Sansa went in to labor. It was a difficult birth, lasting two full days. She thought she'd die, had even screamed it. _Maybe it wouldn't be so bad... but no. I had to live, for Rickon, even for the baby. Babies need mothers._ So she fought against the pain and survived with a son for her efforts, a large, healthy boy with wisps of black hair and the sweetest smile. His eyes were blue but the maester told her they'd change, probably to Sandor's grey. She loved him at first sight.  
  
Rickon was the one to name him and he chose Sandor. "Babies get named after their fathers, don't they?" He was hunched over the bed, watching the red-faced infant sleep in Sansa's arms.  
  
"Yes Rickon they do, it's a very good name." And it was. She might not have loved him but she cared about him in her own way. And he'd given her a baby, and Rickon, and the happiness she found at White Harbor. Even her life. Sansa knew she owed it to him to try and love him and promised when he returned that she would; she even started writing him letters that were more than dutiful.  
  
 _Our son is beautiful Sandor, the Sun in my sky. I think he'll look like you when he grows, perhaps he'll be as tall? I miss you, I wish the world hadn't gone mad so that you could see our Little, could hold him as I do. I know you'd love him just as fiercely as I do. But we'll be waiting Sandor, waiting right here for you to come and claim us._  
  
They were not love letters, not the romantic, overblown prose she once dreamed of writing, but there was something more pure about them. More honest. Sansa hoped it was enough, that they would keep Sandor alive and fighting. That he'd come back.


	6. Chapter 6

Leaving the Manderlys was... it was harder than she expected it would be. _Another home she couldn't have._ She hugged each of the Manderly girls, crying but trying her hardest not to. So much of her heart was here, attached to the gleaming white walls and churning water. Sansa had found herself again, living here, but it couldn't last. Nothing like that ever did.  
  
Sandor was dead, truly dead, half the Tyrells destroyed in a blaze of Wildfire. So much change. Her heart had broken to hear that gentle, good Margaery was lost to them. She'd spent the night in the sept, praying for her friend and what could have been.  
  
In the morning she'd dried her tears and begun to plan, because if there ever was a time for Sansa Stark to return to life, it was now. There was still a price on her head but few people even thought of it during these broken days. It had been nearly two years.  
  
And why should they care? Cersei was dead - _good riddance_ \- as was Myrcella and Tommen. There was no one who would pay such a rich bounty for her. Especially not with the crown so contested.  
  
In the place of the Baratheon/Lannister regime had come the young Aegon, another spirit back from the dead. A dragon prince for a dying world. _They all seem to come back, all but the Starks._ So far no word had come of Bran or Arya and Sansa had gone back to thinking them lost to her. Well, except for Rickon.  
  
Rickon was a gangly little boy now, growing like a weed, and Little was a babbling toddler walking on unsteady feet. She could hardly keep up with her boy, chasing him down the marketplace while Rickon encouraged him to run even faster. Such was the life of ghosts, coming to life one by one in a world where Tyrion Lannister lived.  
  
At sixteen Sansa could look back and feel oddly grateful for the dwarf. He could have been worse, so much so, but he'd tried and suffered so much for it. For even existing. Her heart pitied him, even knowing that he'd hate it. Still, she could wish him well as she made the long journey back to King's Landing.  
  
There were so many rumors it was hard to know what was true and what wasn't. Jon Snow lived, he died, he'd been summoned from death as a zombie. The dragon queen had swallowed half the world whole. Winterfell was an ancient machine built for destroying the whitewalkers - that one, at least, seemed to be true.  
  
Some were about her mother but Sansa never listened to those. _Never_.  
  
She focused on the trip ahead, readied herself for what might come. Her plan was going to throw herself on Aegon's mercy, to hope he awarded Rickon the rights to Winterfell once it was no longer needed for the Dawn. The bounty on her head had mostly died with Cersei but she'd ask that he remove it too. She had to do this, had to be brave.  
  
It turns out she need not have worried how she might be received. Once Aegon agreed to meet the infamous Sansa Stark he was very taken with her - Petyr's words floated across her mind, about how her beauty would ensnare, but she vehemently ignored them. That was one ghost who would remain dead.  
  
Before meeting the prince, who was by all accounts young and handsome and brave, like a fairytale come to life, Sansa had washed the blue from her hair, startled to see the rich Tully red after so long. Looking at herself in the mirror she looked so different than the last time she'd been in King's Landing. Older. Wiser even. She had prayed to the seven that Aegon saw her as such as she carefully dressed in Stark greys and whites.  
  
The boy on the iron throne might have been of age with her, but all Sansa could see was how impossibly young he seemed, how untried. It made her nervous but she performed beautifully, as she always had, and a charmed Aegon had acquiesced easily - much to the displeasure of a man to his right who she would later learn was Jon Connington.  
  
Rickon would have Winterfell once the Dawn was over, and Sansa would be his guardian until he was old enough to rule on his own. Sansa was to be given a fair trial at the end of the Dawn. Her marriage to Sandor was unfortunately void, leaving Little a bastard, but Aegon talked of annulling her marriage to Tyrion. By the end of her audience with the prince - _king?_ \- Jon Connington hated her and wanted her gone.  
  
She left wishing she could be gone as well. This place held too many memories, all of them washed with melted stone from Cersei's grand destruction. In some places the ground was as slick as glass.  
  
Alas, it was not so easy for her to escape. Not politely. Before Aegon left for war, to meet his aunt at the Dawn and to battle it out against the whitewalkers and perhaps her dragons, he'd bid that she stay. An order, no matter how sweetly spoken.  
  
Trapped again it was sometimes hard to breathe. She had nightmares, woke soaked in sweat and screaming. _I'm okay. He's not Joffrey. It's not safe anywhere else that's all. It's okay it's okay it's okay._ There were days she didn't sleep at all, creeping in to Little's room just to watch him, to remind herself that it was different now.  
  
Having her beloved son helped, and Rickon. Both were rowdy, boisterous children and she appreciated the distraction.  
  
Then Aegon was dead.  
  
No one stepped up to take his place, the assumption being that the dragon queen would come and no one wanted to enrage her. Time went on and Sansa waited, her fate once more in the hands of gods and unknown men.  
  
Sandor was four when the Dawn ended, bloodily and with much sacrifice. The dragon queen gave her very life to save them. Jon Snow followed her to the very end. The dragons too. Only the third dragonrider survived: Tyrion.  
  
And he was coming home.


	7. Chapter 7

She thought about running, but where would she even go? There was nowhere to go. Not yet. She needed to annul her marriage, needed to face her upcoming trial. But there was no trial.  
  
Tyrion came, shattered and so much more scarred and deformed than he'd been, and he... he _helped_ her. Like the long line of broken men before him (him being the first and the last seemed fitting) only he didn't seem to want anything from Sansa herself. He didn't ask to dine with her, didn't seek her out. He left her alone as he set everything to rights.  
  
The first was their marriage which he had annulled by the High Septon. He validated her marriage to Sandor Clegane somehow, probably with gold. That gave her son a name, no longer a Snow. He also had a right to the Clegane holdings as a lord. There was more.  
  
Joffrey's murder was placed at the feet of Cersei and her power mongering. It was all very official and none dared question him. How could they? He was the last dragonrider. The survivor. Some thought he might declare himself king but Sansa knew better. Tyrion just wanted what she did: to go home.  
  
Only he didn't have a home, did he? Casterly Rock was his but he'd never wanted it. All of this (the official parts, at least, sparing her) were declared at the side of the temporary throne.  
  
She was speechless. She was free now? No running? She decided to talk to him then, requested that they dine together. He denied her. It was confusing and Sansa finally sought him out - in the godswood, of all places.  
  
"Tyrion?"  
  
"Go away, Sansa." He sounded so dim, like the life had been squeezed right out of him. She remembered him from before - bitter, but strong. That man was gone.  
  
In his place was someone she had no idea how to approach, but she pushed forward. She owed him that. "I... I wanted to thank you. You've saved my life."  
  
He sighed heavily, not turning to face her. "I just made things right, Sansa. It never should have happened."  
  
Little Sandor came barrelling through the trees just then, running towards Sansa after getting away from his nursemaid. "Mama, Mama look!" He offered her a wriggling kitten which she accepted gracefully, kneeling down and smiling. Tyrion turned and watched them both painfully.  
  
Gently she turned her son with one hand, willing him to be polite. "Sandor, this is Tyrion."  
  
"The dragon man!" Sandor was all but dancing in place, trying to remember his manners but also wanting to ask all sorts of questions. She was pleased he didn't stare like some did. Dragonrider or not, the dwarf's face was not an easy one to take in.  
  
"Yes, but he is also Lord Tyrion of Casterly Rock. How do you greet a lord?" Sandor seemed to think before bowing awkwardly. Tyrion said nothing. Finally the nurse caught up with her charge, apologizing profusely before pulling him away with the promise of honey cakes.  
  
Sansa was still kneeling, holding the orange kitten in her hands. Tyrion finally spoke. "That's why I did it, Sansa, because you've had too many people using you and you've just let them. Even that boy is just another example of you trading yourself for something as basic as _safety_." He was angry but shook his head. He seemed to be thinking of something. "Do you remember Willas Tyrell, the one Olenna tried to marry you to?"  
  
Sansa's heart stopped. It had been her last girlish dream to marry Willas Tyrell - sight unseen - and live happily in a world of roses and dogs. "Yes, I remember." Her voice is so soft it might not have been there at all.  
  
"He needs a wife still." She said nothing, frozen like a doe in the woods. "He's a good man, I made sure of it. And Highgarden would be safe for you and him." He nodded in the direction Sandor had been taken in.  
  
"If I say no?"  
  
He turned back away, facing the strange, blackened tree again. The godswood had burned somewhat during the fire, but had survived it. Much hadn't. "You can say whatever you like, I'm just trying to do right by you. You don't have to marry, you know that, but I've seen the way you are with your son."  
  
It's true, she loved her son more than anything and often thought of having more, but that required a husband. One Tyrion was apparently providing for her - after he'd checked to make sure it was safe, that Willas was good. The idea made tears sprout in the corner of her eyes, threaten to spill. It made her wish she could love Tyrion because he was a good man too. But she didn't. "Okay."


	8. Chapter 8

Tyrion sent her to Willas. The convoy was heavily guarded, as though she were the queen she'd long ago wanted to be. It felt like a mockery but she knew it was mere over-precaution on his part. The Starks had enemies still, her more than the rest. _And he loves me enough to want me safe, even as he hates himself for it._  
  
The rest of the world remained in shambles, trying to recover from the chaos of everything. But there was hope pocketed everywhere - starting with the family the world had spared after all.  
  
Arya was much changed, dangerous now, but she was still her sister and if anything they were closer than they ever could have been in their previous life. Bran lived as well, still burdened by his unmoving legs. He'd changed too, had an unearthy way about him. Some said he was magic. Sansa didn't care about that, either.  
  
It hadn't been easy, hearing the truth of everything. Some of it was so impossible. Bran and the Weirwoods, Arya and her wolves. Only Sansa and Rickon had faced more earthly trials. But they were together, that's what counted, and kept in firm touch - Bran had provided special ravens for the purpose, birds with an uncanny abiliity to find them no matter what.  
  
For now Rickon, Bran, and Arya would remain at Winterfell, rebuilding.  
  
Some places survived better than others. Highgarden had lived past the fall of the great citadel, though rumor had it that it was no longer the beautiful haven it had been. Sansa didn't care. She didn't believe in havens any longer. Even White Harbor had just been a stop, a temporary place to hide.  
  
It did make her think of Margaery though, of everything really. The journey was long enough that there was little else to do but entertain her son and think about the many turns her life had taken since that fateful day when Robert Baratheon had picked her out as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And now there was no queen at all, nor a king.  
  
A new prophecy had come with the ending of the Dawn: in fifteen years time the dragons would come again, would be reborn to take their rightful place. All the great lords had agreed that now was no time to fight for the throne, that they'd honor the prophecy.  
  
Tyrion was sworn in as the steward and would remain so until the dragons either came or a new king was sworn in. Secretly Sansa wondered if it was such a wise decision to wait. It would give the envious ample time to prepare to take the throne for themselves, even if a supposed dragon rider appeared.  
  
But that wasn't her concern. From now on she was going to stay as far away form the Game as she feasible could.  
  
"Mama, Mama when are we getting there? Does Willas really have dogs? Can I have a dog? When is aunt Arya going to visit? She said she would. Why isn't Tyrion coming. He rides dragons, he should come too."  
  
Little - who was more and more often referred to by his correct name, Sandor, now that his father wasn't around to confuse things - was impatient to reach his new home. He'd grown so much already, even at four most mistook him for six or even seven, and it made Sansa's heart ache for the babe he'd once been. _Though I'm sure I'll have more soon, now that... well, now that there is Willas._  
  
When they arrived Sansa didn't expect the grand procession she was met with. Terrified, she could hardly look up but she forced herself to smile, to wave. And when the door opened and she was led out she looked up and met the eyes of her future lord and husband.  
  
He looked so much like Margaery and Loras. He was taller, his hair curlier and more unkempt, and he used a cane and a strange brace to support his bad leg, but he was a handsome man. One who surely could have done better than the unofficially disgraced Sansa Stark.  
  
Swallowing heavily she curtsied and bid Sandor to bow. Willas greeted them both properly and she couldn't help thinking that she should have worn a nicer gown, or taken more time with her hair. She wanted to please him, this man who would own her very life once the ceremony had taken place. Anxiety bubbled up in her stomach. _What if he's like Joffrey? What if he beats me? Hurts me? No one could stop him. They never stopped Joffrey, not once, not even when I was Tyrion's wife._ She swallowed heavily. _Please, please like me._  
  
As if he could read her thoughts Willas stepped closer, offering her his arm. "Please don't be afraid Sansa. You're safe here, you'll _always_ be safe here even if you'd rather not have me as your husband."  
  
Together they walked up the steps and in to the main hall as Sansa fought to control her breathing. "I don't know what happened to you, but I know what it's like to be afraid and alone, helpless to do anything but endure." He sounded utterly sincere. She thought again of the monstrous explosion of wildfire that had taken half his family with it, of Highgarden burning. Perhaps he really did understand.  
  
"Your rooms are already prepared, would you like some time alone? I assure you Sandor is welcome to explore the grounds, Garlan is here with his and Leonette's son who is around the same age. I asked them to come, I thought it would give us a chance to get to know one another while providing a companion for your son." He paused, suddenly awkward. "Not to presume... that is, if you'd rather he didn't, that's fine." Another pause before his brown eyes met hers again. "I'm afraid I make a terrible suitor."  
  
"Not at all. Thank you, I think I'm okay. Just a little overwhelmed but I'll manage. I know Sandor would appreciate a friend, he was a bit isolated before... some still consider him a bastard."  
  
"If anyone here dared they'd be out on their ass - pardon my language." She offered him a smile, appreciating his candor.  
  
"I'd like to get to know you better, perhaps we can go for a walk?" She winced, remembering his leg, and immediately was afraid. "I'm sorry-"  
  
"Sansa, it's alright. You are always welcome to speak your mind, no one will punish you for it. As for walking I'm afraid I can't do much of it, can we compromise and sit in my favorite garden? It's one of the few we managed to save."  
  
"I'd like that very much."


	9. Chapter 9

The wedding is grand, utterly lavish. The sort of affair she'd dreamed of back in Winterfell complete with her own prince charming - a true prince, even if he was a mere lord of the realm.  
  
All of her ladies were gushing about everything - from the decorations to who was attending to her gown. It had been a hard adjustment for her to make, having attendants, but the Tyrells had so many cousins and nieces and daughters to spare, even after the fire. It was supposed to help them later on in life to assist Sansa as ladies in waiting so she'd politely accepted them.  
  
Ordinarily she appreciated their chatter. Today she wanted everyone to go away and leave her locked in her room. At least Arya was there, looking out of place in breeches and a tunic. If anyone understood her panic, Arya no doubt would. And did judging by the way she finally chased everyone from the room.  
  
"Be honest Sansa, is this what you want? Because if you don't I'll get you and Sandor out of here right now." This new Arya was different from the old, more confident in her abilities. The last time Sansa had seen her she'd been struggling to chase stray cats and now she wore Needle at her hip like it had always been there and the way she carried herself... Sansa had no doubt that if anyone could get her out of this it would be her.  
  
"I don't know. He makes me laugh." A pause, considering. "He's so gentle with Sandor, he is never condescending. And he's thoughtful." She took a deep, shuddering breath before looking up at her wolfish sister. "I want to marry him."  
  
Immediately, Arya pounced on Sansa's hesitation. "Because you want to be safe?"  
  
"I'll always want that. But... I _like_ him. That's what scares me. I liked Joffrey too." She can't meet Arya's honest eyes now, stares at her hands instead. Whatever roughness they'd obtained from her travels had been smoothed away, they were as smooth as the silk she now wore.  
  
Of all the impossible things Arya wrapped her in a tight hug. "Oh Sansa, Willas isn't that evil little bastard. I promise, I checked. And Joffrey- Joffrey wasn't your fault. You didn't know."  
  
"You did."  
  
Arya held her close. "Not really, I was mad at him for being bully, I never knew what he was." And her words are so simple, so true. She's always had a gift for that. "And I'm sorry you had to know at all, Sansa, I really am. Everything before the Dawn... somebody should have been there for you."  
  
"You too." Sansa sniffled.  
  
"Yeah, maybe for us all. I mean I'm grateful we had people looking out for us, but it wasn't the same. We're all so different now. Bran's... Bran. Rickon is never going to stop being half-wild. Everyone thinks I'm dangerous and they don't know the least of it. The only people who aren't scared of me are you three and Gendry. And you, you're so brave. Even when you're scared. You stayed yourself too, more than any of us."  
  
"Arya you're still-"  
  
Something sharp enters Arya's gaze. "No, I'm not. You know I'm not." It's a look of darkness that Sansa has noticed more and more - it's the kind of look that frightens away all but the most steadfast.  
  
"You're still my sister." They both hugged again before pulling away. Arya stood, collecting herself. She had never been the type to tearfully cry over anything and even now emotions seemed to make her terribly uncomfortable. But she still tried and Sansa loved her for it.  
  
"I am that. So, since you're marrying him, are you _really_ going to have Tyrion _and_ our brother give you away?" That part Sansa hadn't been sure of, but Willas hadn't argued. He told her to do whatever felt right - had it been up to them their wedding would have been a simple thing in front of the trees, but Olenna was a force to be reckoned with, more so after losing her darling Margaery.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Isn't that unlucky, having the old husband help hand you off to the new?" There it was, that cheeky, delighted grin. Knowing she was being terrible and completely unrepentant.  
  
Sansa shrugged and turned back to her reflection, fussing with her hair again. "He made this all possible, it seemed fitting. Bran is the one who suggested it and that was only after I'd convinced him to escort me. I don't think he'll ever like the way people look at him."  
  
The way people looked at Bran, like he was a monster or someone to laugh at, infuriated Sansa. He had lived through so much, they all had, and just because he needed a chair to get around didn't make him any less than her or anyone else. As for his abilities... he was still her brother, nothing changed that. And if anyone wanted to speak out against him they would face her and she would use everything she'd learned to make them regret it.  
  
"They're idiots. They think they should pity him when he's the one who pities them. He sees too much." Arya looked lost for a moment, almost sad. "He sees the truth, yes, but he doesn't judge us for it." A pause. "Well, in any case I think it's just about time to get you married for keeps this time. You ready?" Arya offered a ridiculous bow.  
  
"Of course my dear, chivalrous sister." Sansa gave her a courtly bow and together they went to meet her groom.  
  
\-----------------  
  
Tyrion and Bran lead her to Willas, and that's all she can see. Willas. Her husband. She knows there's hundreds of people in the Sept, more outside ready to cheer them on. Sandor is there, wriggling in Arya's lap. Rickon (and Shaggydog - he insisted) is probably there looking bored. Her ladies.  
  
But all she can see is this man, this good, decent man who looks at her like she is everything he wanted, but not the whole of his world - there's a balance, it's not like Sandor was. The flowers on the ground and the stars in the sky and the very air he breathes in.  
  
"Hello." Her voice is soft, knowing she shouldn't say anything at all but unable to help herself.  
  
"Hello Sansa." He smiles, just a little, and it eases the tension in her shoulders, the heavy feeling she'd had before. It was going to be alright. Willas was no Joffrey, he never could be. He wasn't Sandor with his adoration, Tyrion with his bitter longing, or Petyr with his obsessive need.  
  
They'd all wanted something from her, needed her to complete them in some way, but Willas... he just wanted her. As she was. Not to complete him but to just be with him. With her anxiety and night terrors, her love of lemon cakes. He'd promised to do everything they could so that they would be happy together, so she'd be happy, and Sansa believed him.  
  
When the Tyrell cloak settled on her shoulders she felt light as air.


	10. Chapter 10

When Sansa had their first son, she was overcome with emotion. Here was this little person that was a living embodiment of the love and happiness she'd found, the peace, and he was wriggling in her arms.  
  
She loved her eldest with all her heart but she didn't lie to herself and pretend she'd loved the first Sandor who was long since buried - a ghost that occasionally came back when her son moved a certain way or glowered at something he found displeasing.  
  
He was six now, a 'big boy' who had his own room and played knights and dragons with his cousins in the safe shelter of the gardens, and was more than happy to have a brother. She'd been afraid that Sandor would be like Jon - an unwelcome figure in their life - but Willas loved Sandor like his own, often joining him during his training sessions despite the pain in his leg.  
  
And now they had a boy, a boy she would name in part for her brother, the Young Wolf... and in part for Sweetrobin, as penance. She still had nightmares about it sometimes, the way his feet kicked and kicked, his muffled cries.  
  
Harry and Myranda had two boys of their own now. Sansa wondered how Harry could bear the sight of them after what he'd done.  
  
Willas leaned over her side, offering his hand to the infant at her breast. "He's so perfect Sansa."   
  
On the other side, curled up against her, Sandor made a face. "But he's so little! He'll get bigger, right Mama?"  
  
"Yes Sandor, he'll get bigger."  
  
"When he does I'll teach him how to ride and hold a sword and play with the dogs."  
  
"You'll be the best of brothers to our little Robin, I'm sure of it."  
  
More children came and the country knitted itself back together. Customs changed. The Red Keep was being rebuilt in anticipation of the returning dragonking. _Or queen._ Sansa found herself spending a lot of her time with the young girls, some barely nine, instructing them on how to carry themselves as fine ladies.  
  
It had surprised her at first, when the first request had come, but it was quickly becoming a common practice across Westeros. And she adored her little ladies, they healed a part of her soul that had been so badly burned.  
  
Time went on. Robin was hardly one when Sansa gave birth to a daughter, Catelyn. She felt guilty about the name but Willas told her he wanted a daughter named for such a fine, upstanding woman. He was understanding that way. He'd lost enough to know what it meant to have a piece of lost ones back, even if it was only their name.  
  
Like Robin Catelyn had the Tully eyes, round and blue, with golden brown girls. She was a dainty little thing, born early. Sandor almost loved her more than Robin. By the time the fifteen year deadline was upon them Sansa and Willas had eight children - nine counting Sandor.  
  
Sandor himself was a strapping nineteen year old, towering over most men. He was quieter than he'd been as a boy, but no less kind or devoted. And he laughed. Somehow Sansa knew that, if nothing else, would have made his father happy - the man who had had so little in life to laugh about.  
  
They were happy, they were content, but their peaceful idyll was coming to a close.


	11. Chapter 11

A cluster of children ran across the smooth stone path that led to the memory gardens - all ruddy-cheeked with Tyrell curls and Tully eyes. Ahead their mother gave a fond, if somewhat restrained, smile.  
  
Flame red hair was carefully arranged in plaits encircling her crown with tiny, wild tendrils escaping at the nape of her neck. Porcelain skin, so cold and cool it was hard to imagine her as anything but a serene sort of Madonna - the mother personified - was all but hidden behind a well-made, if simple, grey dress embroidered with white roses with a high neck and long fitted sleeves. "Careful Robin." The voice reaches out to the head of the pack who begrudgingly slows his pace to a brisk walk.  
  
Behind him are the rest of her the children and nipping at their bootheels were several dogs in varying sizes... some with a wolfish cast. When the tangled mob reaches her they are all talking at once before a single voice finally rises above the others, irritation evident. "Mother!" As always her second oldest is already excitedly babbling once he has quieted his siblings, though half the words are lost as he drags in air. He must have run all the way from the main castle, no doubt flush with gossip from the visiting envoy. Sansa preferred to spent her time in the gardens when any such persons arrived: she'd had enough of games.  
  
Thirteen year old Robin, however, had not. _He's such a healthy child, robust and strong. I wish I hadn't named him in penance... sometimes it's impossible to even look at him, my own dear, sweet son. But it wouldn't be penance if it didn't hurt._ "There's a man... he's all in red and gold! ...might be a giant ...says he's from Casterly Rock!" _Tyrion had sent someone? Here?_ Worrying fluttered in her belly but for a moment before she crushed the feeling. By then Robin had caught his breath, chattering away at her with a grin. "-and that's why father sent us to get you. I guess he's in an awful hurry, that fellow. Asked for you special."  
  
Strange to think of her children and those she'd named them for. So many lost. She had her own Catelyn now, an Eddarion and a Brandon. Small Margaery, her voice like a clear bell. Doe-eyed Tyra. Stubborn Loran. Robin, of course. Even a Jon. And behind them stood Sandor, a severe contrast against the rest.  
  
At nineteen he was taller than most grown men (despite his tendency to slouch) and possessed the most extraordinary eyes, a rained-out sort of blue sleet. Currently he was tugging at the collar of his new tunic, wincing as the girls tugged at his hands and stood on his feet. They were too young to be focused for long on the unusual visitor and were back to pestering Sandor for piggy back rides and stories.  
  
Sansa wanted to smile at the image, to encourage her son as though it might change things, but she knew in her heart it would be a futile effort. Though he felt comfortable in Highgarden, buried in flowers and rapier wit, Sandor was more than ready to abandon them for the Clegane holdings that he'd been granted at the death of his father - holdings that had been expanded over the years to the point where Sandor was a nobleman of great worth now.  
  
She's been so afraid that he'd grow up like her brother Jon had, feeling like a changeling. It would have been unbearable for her, more than the idea of him leaving her was. She knew it was past time, that he was an adult now and did not need his mother as much as he had, but Sansa almost wished he could stay at Highgarden forever - that all of her children could.  
  
Had it been so long since she'd held him close in the chaos, hiding away until the worst of it was over? She didn't think about that part of her life anymore. It was too painful. Better to keep her feet firmly planted in the moment before her. "Tell your father I will join him in the great hall momentarily. I fear I am not quite presentable enough for such esteemed company." Robin hastens to comply, the chaos of Tyrell children and dogs following close behind him, back to Willas. Sandor looked back at her uncertainly before setting off after them at a more sedate pace.  
  
Ordinarily Sansa might have made more of an effort to remind them of their manners and contain some of their natural exuberance but she was shaken by their unusual guest. Whatever it was, Tyrion was asking for her... Tyrion who had, in his own way, rescued her from so much harm. Just like Sandor had and Littlefinger too. So many broken men before the Dawn came had given their lives to spare her, little Sansa Stark. She never knew why she inspired such sacrifice and when it was over they were all dead.  
  
Even if he continued to breathe the Tyrion she'd known was lost to dragonfire and bitterness, a despair that consumed all of his bright wit, his hope, his strength. The Lord of Casterly Rock was said to be every bit as cool and efficient as his sire, with an edge of brutality that helped keep those in line who might question orders given by a crippled dwarf. There were times that fact broke her heart.  
  
 _Oh, Tyrion._ Nothing follows the thought. If asked she could not have said whether the words wore born of fear or regret. Too much of the past was impossible for her to judge or even acknowledge. It was easier to wear the smile of Lady Sansa Stark Tyrell, the Reddest Rose in Highgarden. Daughter of the North, Wife of Lord Willas Tyrell, Mother to the future Lord of the Reach. Those monikers were pure, woven light, wrapped so tightly around her it made everyone forgot some of the things she'd been before. The Imp's Wife, The Boy King's Doom, Littlefinger's Bastard, The Hound's Bitch.  
  
But she owed the whole of her new life, the sum of her happiness, to Tyrion. He'd freed her of everything, allowed her to live undisturbed in Highgarden.  
  
And it seemed now he meant to see the debt repaid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! I fully intend on a part two, but for now this is what I had written. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
